


Restless

by beautifulwhensarcastic



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biased adults and their shitty expectations is possibly the most realistic thing about this story, F/M, Implied Steve/Bucky/Natasha, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor Character Death, Peggy Carter is underestimated, Sorcerers, Steve has a kink for Peggy saving him, Wandless Magic, she's also dramatic af, this is not a HP universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-13 14:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12985725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulwhensarcastic/pseuds/beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: The first war with warlocks has brought massive destruction and death. Those who survived lay all their hope for a safe future in the few sorcerers and healers that remained. Abraham Erskine and Howard Stark conduct a special project to find and educate young gifted kids, shaping them into future sorcerers able to fight Hydra’s warlocks.Peggy Carter is a bold ten year old when she becomes their apprentice. She’s fourteen when she’s denied further training.





	1. The Scar

**Author's Note:**

> A rather weird story inspired by a dream that turned into a long, detailed idea which some people liked so much that they've talked me into writing it.
> 
> There will be two chapters, each made of segments. Chronological skipping in time (aka how I attempted to fit a potentially 12-chapter story in two parts).

It's not a faint sparkle which light seems stronger only due to the darkness around. That illumination is brilliant, emitting a glow so intense Peggy can feel it warming her cheeks.

Breath hitches in her lungs in a surprised gasp. Audible enough for Steve to look up at her.

Their eyes meet over the sparkling globe of energy floating above his hand. Steve's blue irises shine a strange silver now, a cold, powerful depth. Peggy senses it's not only the light of plasma reflecting in them. It's more.

There's always been more to him.

The orb sizzles with energy as if about to burst. Then it fades quickly. A blink of an eye and Steve's small hand is empty, outstretched toward Peggy. She notices his fingers shaking before he clenches them in a fist and forces his arm down.

Peggy takes a step forward. Hesitant, eyeing Steve like one warily assesses a wounded animal about to lash out at any moment. He looks lost and angry. She's not sure if the anger is directed at her for interrupting, at anyone else in particular, or maybe at himself.

Over the past eight months, since she entered Stark's mansion to train under Erskine's guidance, Peggy has noticed how prone to self depreciation Steve is.

Though she's only ten, she knows what it's like to doubt oneself. Especially when the others don't believe in you either.

But Erskine believes in Steve.

He looks at that boy with wonder and fondness, seeing beyond the small size.

Sometimes it annoys Peggy. A sudden sting of possessiveness which shouldn't be known to a ten year old, yet flares within her.

Because she saw Steve first.

Back in Brooklyn when they were picking up Bucky. Stark and Erskine were too engrossed in their bartering with Bucky's parents to even pay attention to a small boy clutching his friend's shirt as they said their goodbyes. Tears streaked Steve's hollow cheeks, his eyes an icy blue that reminded Peggy of the flames consuming bodies during the warlocks' raid on her hometown.

Looking at him, she felt the shift in energy. A rippling vibration running to the very core, hitting surfaces like the lightest of earthquakes.

Steve's cheeks pinked in embarrassement then, his eyes going wide, filled with panic, when he realized she had sensed it. And right when Peggy was about to tug on Erskine's sleeve to get his attention, the old man had turned. His eyes settled on Steve instantly.

From that moment Erskine's gaze always turned to Steve. As if he awaited great things to come.

They never happened.

Not so far, at least.

Each of them, the four apprentices, makes some progress during their practices. Smaller or bigger, depending on the field. But Steve never shines brighter than the rest.

What Peggy witnessed just now proves that Erskine might be right about Steve. Something tells her the performance worthy of a skilled sorcerer is merely a drop in the pool of Steve's actual power.

Even Natasha, who shows signs of great skill in managing electrical energy, has created a small, faint ball of plasma. Peggy's orb was the biggest, but faded quickly. Natasha and Bucky, though not that impressive, held theirs much longer. Steve's ball sparkled a few seconds, barely reaching the size of a plum.

A joke compared to the globe so big and bright it illuminated the secluded area just a second ago.

"How-" Peggy pauses, then rushes toward Steve. "It was magnificent!"

She takes his hand in her own. His fingers are warm, still shaking when he curls them around hers.

Steve shrugs sheepishly. He hopes she won't ask how he did it. Because he doesn't really know. But he's sure if she told anyone and he had to do it again in front of everyone, he'd fail miserably.

He always does.

 

* * *

 

Steve's hand is nearly as small as Peggy's. Dirty with soil and splattered with tiny, red dots of blood from where he scratched his palms against the rough ground when he fell off the tree.

They're restless, Erskine says. The both of them - Steve and Peggy.

It's true. Compared to Bucky and Nat they are always on the move. Fidgeting in their seats, running off, unable to stop the very first instinct to move when something happens. The master reminds them they are still quite vulnerable kids, but the voice of reason never tames this deeply rooted need to act first.

Back in Brooklyn Steve used to shrug it off with a smartass remark. He's a kid, not an old, fat cat to sit in the corner and wait for petting. Steve's sure it's just the childish curiosity, the need for adventure.

But Peggy thinks there's more to that. She always connects everything to their powers.

Sometimes it irks Steve. Mostly because it scares him.

Does it mean they're somehow broken? Malfunctioning?

Natasha and Bucky are gifted kids too, but they rarely burst with energy and impatience. They tend to be so quiet and observant, watchful like predators on a hunt. Bucky can sit still for hours and then only complain how numb his butt is. Natasha never complains about anything. From what they know about her, everything here is so much better than what she has experienced in her young life.

"Are you okay?" Peggy asks, climbing down the cherry tree. She jumps down from the lowest branch, landing rather ungracefully next to Steve.

Peggy never possesed much grace, much to her mother's dismay. Her father only smiled and said it would come with age. Peggy seriously doubts it.

There are moments, especially now as she enters this weird phase in her early teens, when she becomes annoyed with herself for not being perfect in every aspect. She's angry with other people for creating those expectations too. Expectations for a sorcerer, expectations for a proper girl.

Steve's probably the only one who never expects anything other than her joining him on their little adventures.

She helps him up from the ground, absentmindedly brushing a few leaves from his hair.

"Yeah," Steve nods, wiping his palms on his pants. It stings a little where the skin is prickled, but it's nothing compared to the pain and bruises he used to get in Brooklyn.

"Thanks to you," he lifts his head and smiles at Peggy, looking at her without any hint of embarrassement or anger. "You slowed my fall."

He knows it's her doing, not his. The gentle breeze against his falling body, sudden thickness of the air that made it feel as if he was drowning in an unset jelly. Steve didn't think about securing himself in any way. His only instinct when the branch creaked under their weight was to shield Peggy. Make sure she doesn't fall down.

He doubts he managed to act upon it, he fell so quickly. But then again, Peggy didn't end on the ground with him. She somehow landed safely on a lower branch.

"But I didn't stop it," Peggy huffs, clearly displeased with herself. She marks it as a failure. Another one on her long list of expectations she can't meet.

Lately, she's been even more determined to perfect everything. Not to be the best among others, but to satisfy her own and others' expectations. To get rid of the growing voice of discontent. And to finally get acknowledged.

It always feels like she's unappreciated.

Peggy grew up knowing that feeling all too well - being a girl, always compared to her older brother, always expected to fit a certain polished image. Never enough to impress.

She has power. Lots of it. Yet it fades into mediocrity compared to the other three apprentices.  _Not enough to become a sorcerer_  - she has heard Stark and Erskine say about her.

"Still, better to have scratched hands and knees than a broken nose," Steve shrugs and flashes her a cheeky grin.

"Come on!" He nudges her as he moves back to the tree. He reaches for the gnarly deformation on the trunk and pulls himself up. "We still have those cherries to get!"

Peggy's right after him.

Reckless. Relentless.

Restless.

 

* * *

 

Her fingers tremble within Steve's secure hold. A contrast to the usual roles they take when Peggy's the one solid and composed, offering Steve a comforting touch.

Now she's shaking. A soft quiver that seems unstoppable no matter how much she tries to harden herself.

It makes her feel vulnerable.

Recently everything about Steve makes her feel exposed and fragile.

He's a little taller than her now. Slightly broader, more filled out. He started getting bigger after his fourteen birthday. Not everything about him has changed, though. Sandy, unruly hair still falls over his forehead, drawing attention to his eyes. Eyes bluer than they were a year ago.

Peggy always liked his smile and that little snicker whenever he does something mischievous, but now it makes her heart hurt a bit.

"Steve," she whispers his name in awe, her gaze flicking between his face and their joined hands.

A blue energy, weaved like a string around their clasped hands, pulses steadily, spreading warmth through Peggy's body. She wonders if Steve feels it too. Or if he notices the purple streak in that blue rope of power which pulses much faster - matching exactly her own heartbeat.

Peggy isn't sure what they're creating at the moment.

Steve said they have to do something special for her thirteenth birthday. After the cake, which Peggy assumes was good only thanks to Bucky, because neither Nat nor Steve have any cooking skills, they snuck out to create some fireworks in the far corner of the forgotten orchard. Then, somehow, they separated and she found herself exploring the small maze at the border of the Stark's property. With Steve.

Erskine's tales of the most powerful sorcerers being able to channel and combine their powers have inspired the ever curious Steve to try it. All four of them have been trying the whole Sunday morning. Failing, of course. Neither really believed they could do that, but hope still lingered within them.

Peggy feels only a little guilty of the vicious satisfaction she felt over Steve's disappointed face when he and Natasha didn't succeed in combining their powers.

But if they all failed before, how is it possible now?

Peggy blinks rapidly, still disbelieving what she sees. What she feels.

"Is it your doing?" She knows it's him. Has to be. The blue emanation, so clear and powerful, belongs to Steve.

He's always been strong. Stronger than anyone she met. Even if she didn't see his prime color, Peggy senses his power. It's unique. Piercing through her with a thrilling sensation. Adrenaline and comfort. It has to be all him.

The purple, though, is her color.

For a while Peggy's power was translucent, no vivid color to identify her emanation with. In the past months shades of purple soaked it through, finally shaping into a solid, deep color she can call her own.

That faint thread of purple wrapped around the sparkling blue could be her power, but Peggy has a hard time believing it. The first, bold thought, the certainty filling her with a wave of pride, quickly cracks under the weight of doubts. The logic works now against her, for it's strongly influenced by the adults' condescending tones.

They said she's more inclined to become a healer, that her power isn't manifesting itself enough to give her the chance of becoming a true sorcerer.

Steve's fingers grip hers tighter, the vibration of molecules around their hands intensifies.

"It's ours," he says in bewilderment. And joy, she thinks.

Steve's eyes seem to glow when Peggy lifts her gaze up at him. A deep blue speckled with cold silver. Her heart rate quickens, a surge of power spreading through her limbs until it tingles in every part of her. She feels terrifyingly powerful right now.

The purple current widens against the blue, creating sparks that sizzle and cascade around them like fireworks, burning out before they touch the ground.

_Ours_.

Peggy likes the sound of that. Likes how warm it makes her feel.

Nowadays she's frequently alone. Even when Steve's beside her, his thoughts tend to run to Natasha. Peggy's irked with how it grates on her. How annoyed she becomes when Steve looks at Nat with fascination.

But  _this_  now is theirs, though neither of them really understands how it happens, or what the shift in their combined energies means. What bond it creates.

 

* * *

 

Peggy stays unmoved when Erskine squeezes her shoulder before leaving the room, undoubtedly trying to provide some comfort after the news he'd just brought. She barely stops herself from throwing something his way, or at least in hope to watch it shatter into pieces.

She doesn't notice a few trinkets wobbling on the dresser behind her, the letter opener floating in the air.

There's this thread inside her that stretches to unbelievable tension, so close to snapping. It makes her want to scream and rip things apart.

She does none.

She keeps perfectly still, breathing evenly.

Closed off and showing no emotion, a stance Peggy has mastered through the years. After all, she had the best teacher - her mother is the greatest pretender of all, she has endured through so many conflicts and problems without flinching.

For a person who's so vibrant when happy, letting the laughter resonate loudly and make her kids laugh along, Virginia Carter turns into an ice statue when facing an unwanted occurence. She could take on the hardest whipping without cringing.

_Never give them the satisfacton of stripping you to your weaknesses._

A part of Peggy rebels against that self-inflicted control. She's merely fourteen, she shouldn't suppress it all inside. But she does. Like always. Pushes it all in and covers with indifference.

They won't let her become a sorcerer.

Erskine knows she has the power, has the potential, but sees her meticulousness and calculation as triumphing over the sheer power. A better fit for a healer.

Peggy ponders if it's because she's tamed. The impulsive nature that makes her so fierce and fearless isn't showing in her magic, Erskine had said. In his opinion a sorcerer needs control, yes, but also trust in his power to take over.

Peggy never lets anyone or anything take over.

However, she could be an outstanding healer. Ahead of her times even, according to Erskine.

Peggy barely stopped herself from flipping him off when he said that.

Erskine had already discussed the possibilities with her parents who, Peggy has no doubt, jumped up at the idea. She doesn't blame them. They want to keep her safe and healers aren't usually on the first line during a fight. The possibility of going back to England is an additional bonus.

Understanding their motivation, however, doesn't mean Peggy isn't mad.

She nearly snorted when Erskine said she's going to train with the best healers, Ana and Edwin Jarvis.

Peggy doesn't care how great they are. She wants to stay here. To be a sorcerer, needed and appreciated. She wants to act and make a difference.

Healers are needed too, Peggy reminds herself. It's them who patch up sorcerers and restore the power's balance. She knows for a fact, if it wasn't for the Jarvises, Erskine himself would be dead after his confrontation with Schmidt.

She can find pride and happiness in being a healer, if she allows herself to.

Sniffling, Peggy stands up from the spot in which she was frozen for the past minutes and moves toward the window. The trinkets stop moving, the letter opener hangs in the air - blade down - then falls to the floor with a quiet clink. Peggy doesn't pay any attention to it.

She's drawn to the laughter outside. To her friends.

Bucky's laugh is loud and deep, it has a low edge to it which she knows attracts attention. She's seen how the girls look at him when they occasionally go into town, how they bat their lashes and pinken when he smiles at them. There's also a boy, much bolder than the others, who grinned at her and Steve when they caught him and Bucky kissing fiercely in an alley behind the bakery.

Peggy likes the kindness in Bucky's eyes, present even when they glint mischievously. She's going to miss it, she thinks. After leaving her older brother Bucky somehow filled that space. She remembers him snorting that he has to stretch his protectiveness because she's as bad as Steve.

A painful pang pierces Peggy's heart at the thought of Steve. She quickly shakes it off, before her thoughts wander into the treacherous territority. They tend to do that quite often nowadays, irking Peggy immensely.

The harmless crush she hoped would pass seems to be rooting itself deeper and deeper with each passing month. No amount of reasoning with herself helps in getting rid of it.

She doesn't understand it. The imabalance of it. It's not like in the books which she and Natasha secretly read and hide under the floorboards, as if anyone finding a romance novel in their hands would mean the end of the world.

In those books everything is maginified. Every emotion and desire at the highest peak.

It's not like that for her. She's not losing her sleep over longing for him, she's not crying from heartbreak. But she is drawn to Steve, somehow always finding herself subconsciously leaning his way, following him. 

Being separated from Steve evokes irritation. 

Peggy presses her hand to the window, watching Steve effortlessly pulling himself up on the arbour then jumping from it in a backflip.

The glass under Peggy's hand crackles suddenly. An intricate pattern of glowing lines seeping from the tips of her fingers stretches over the window like a purple frost.

 

* * *

 

A bitter taste fills her mouth, threatening to spill in a painful retch. Peggy presses her lips closed hard until it almost hurts. She tenses and forces every part of her body to stay rigid in hope of avoiding spilling her guts and emotions in front of everyone.

She tries to focus on the sweet, bubblegum scent which spreads around her in a somewhat comforting embrace after a brief hug with Natasha. Peggy is sure it's Nat's doing. A little sign of care and love, though not a single twitch betrays the ever stoic Romanoff.

They're alike in that sense. The conditioned need for maintaining composure, never betraying feelings. But Peggy's too impatient, too violent to master it like Natasha does.

She is, however, quite happy how calm she is now.

Though her blood rushes and every part of her feels like shattering, she manages not to wobble. Her eyes sting from the unshed tears. Peggy only clenches her hands into fists, short nails needling into her palms. That little prickle of pain helps her stay focused.

Peggy's gaze flicks over to Steve. And nearly instantly she looks away as if he had slapped her.

There's a hard set in his jaw, a muscle there twitching. His eyes shine an icy cold blue as he glares at her with unmasked anger.

Steve couldn't keep a poker face if his life depended on it. His ire is clear, evoking a surge of guilt in Peggy, which quickly forms into a defensive rage. There's no reason for him to be angry with her. She's the one being forced to leave.

Peggy expected her goodbye with Steve to be the hardest, she knew it would gut her. But she didn't think she'd become the object of resentment. Another expectation she suddenly failed to meet?

She tilts her chin defiantly, offering him a cold, very polite, "Goodbye."

It's for the best, she tells herself. A tearjerking farewell would only make this harder.

She turns on her heel and starts for the car, eyes unfocused and shining with tears she hopes to hold off until they leave the property.

She's a few steps from the car when someone grabs her elbow and pulls her back. Steve turns her around and wraps his arms around her tightly before she has a chance to protest.

He smells familiar - of paper and butter cookies, which he tends to eat in bulk.

The very few hugs they have shared throughout the years fade in their power compared to this one.

Peggy presses her cheek into his chest. She grips his shirt, clinging to him desperately. She tries to memorize all of it, from the familiar scent to how his arms feel around her. How his heart hammers inside his chest. Still not as rapid as her own.

When a few minutes later they part andPeggy climbs into the back of Howard's car, a violent pang crushes her chest. She puts a hand over her heart, taking deep breaths, but the pain only spreads. As if a cord in her heart stretched and stretched, tugging relentlessly and making her whole being hurt.

Until it gives up, leaving a dull ache.

 

* * *

 

Peggy had found herself in a state of shock when Howard Stark pulled up to a gravelly driveway in front of a small cottage. However uncanny the peaceful place seems, it's undoubtedly a reality. One Peggy thought has disappeared from this violent, dark world.

But she's here. The creaking floorboards under her feet and two little cats playing with her shoelaces are far too real to suspect any tricky magic in it.

She freezes, surprised, when the tabby kitten abandons her laces in favor of climbing her leg and then settlles on her lap. Her fingers tremble a little as she hesitantly reaches to touch the soft fur.

Since leaving Stark's mansion she hasn't touched anyone. Flinched away even from Howard when he tried to cheer her up with colourful explosions contained in a champagne flute.

Everything inside her seems frozen, whether still in the stupor of emotions after being forced to step away from her dream, or to cherish the faint remnant of Steve's hug. No matter her determination to behave like a brave adult, inside she's still a fourteen year old girl, feeling lost and angry.

And it seems that her new teachers, Ana and Edwin, are very aware of it.

The gentle, non-pushy care they show her tugs on her heart. It makes that cold inside of her melt a little.

The house is very welcoming and warm. Nothing Peggy has ever experienced in her previous locations. Stark's mansion is huge, decadent, and lacks anything personal. Her parents' house has more of that personal touch, but still holds great cold that filled every household after the terror caused by Schmidt and his army.

Edwin and Ana's cottage feels like an unreal place.

Peggy thought safe, homey places like this ceased to exist after the first warlocks' war. So many people moved to the cities then, finding the scrambles of safety close to the sorcerers' quarters. She's not sure why the couple - the greatest healers - are living so far away from a big city where they surely would be more needed and appreciated.

Ana's red hair reminds Peggy of Nat. It surprises her how strongly she clings to that thought. For the past half an hour she's been searching for anything to reminds her of the friends she left behind.

Corners of her mouth twitch in a little smile as the kitten rubs its head against her palm, purring softly. Out of the corner of her eye she notices Howard reaching for another butter cookie. It's his seventh.

Peggy eats none.

 

* * *

 

It feels like floating when she closes her eyes and focuses on the surge of her own power.

Peggy has never paid much attention to it, always too focused on keeping it all under control. Like Erskine had said years ago, she didn't trust her power to take over.

Never before, at least.

For the past month, however, Peggy risked more and more. Sneaking out whenever she had a chance. On the false pretense of going for a walk, she wandered into the old orchard across from the cottage. There she let her power freely seep out, mastering each and every of the sorcerer's practices she was supposed to abandon.

The first time she allowed the magic to take over she cried for nearly an hour.

Still not sure why, maybe for the emotions suppressed as deeply as her power. Or because it didn't end with a disaster, like she feared it would. Quite the opposite, it filled Peggy with more confidence.

She's aware there are still many limitations to her abilities, most due to the fear and lack of guidance, but the taste of astonishing fulfillment that using her powers brings has left her hungry for more. So she comes here whenever she can, sits in the natural circle of trees, and unleashes her emanation.

It feels as if her body's suspensed mid air when the flow of magic reaches highest. Like when one jumps on a trampoline and doesn't fall down. Physically she's still on the ground. Sitting crosslegged, arms outstretched, palms open. Her mind is elsewhere.

Sizzling sound of igniting sparks fills the air. Peggy's focus is on the vibration of molecules, drawing substance from the ground and bursting it in the air in a violent blowout of cold flames. Dozens of small, white sparklers cascade all around.

It reminds her of the time she combined her power with Steve's. But what was a coincidence without any purpose behind it, now is a deliberate action. Outstanding in its performance thanks to the growing trust in her power.

Peggy opens her eyes and laughs at the sight of her two loyal, furry companions running around the grass, trying to catch the dying sparks.

She lifts her left hand, letting the air brush between her spread fingers before she suddenly clenches them into a fist. The sparks fade instantly, their illumination spreading in thin, purple lines until they entwine and form a glass-like sheet of power.

Then she makes it spread, burst wide over the whole field in a great flare of light.

Hearing someone's steps, Peggy momentarily turns around panicked. She feels color rising to her cheeks when she meets Edwin's gaze.

"I'm-" Peggy winces, then shakes her head in resignation and drops her gaze to the ground.

Her breath hitches as she notices a layer of hoarfrost covering the grass. She reaches out, brushing her fingers through the soft blades. Surprisingly, the natural coldness of frost she expects to feel turns out to be more electrical, a little weaker than an electrostatical tickle.

The white layer she took for hoar disperses where she touches it.

A displeased meow catches attention of both Peggy and Edwin. One of the cats poked at a small bush nearby, undoubtedly experiencing the same electrostatical jolt Peggy had just felt.

"Well then," Edwin clears his throat and turns to look at Peggy with a soft expression. "I've called Abraham Erskine many things, but never a blind fool. Guess there's a first time for everything."

Peggy blinks and opens her mouth, but no words come out.

The Jarvises gave her only warmth and understanding, lots of patience and encouragement, but she still expected them to be displeased with her for practicing sorcery without approval. They're adults, she's a teenager and somewhere in the back of her head that dynamic always means she's at fault.

"That was outstanding," Edwin admits with no pretense.

He crouches down in front of Peggy and reaches his hand out for her to take. He waits patiently when she hesitates.

"I might not be a sorcerer, but I know that using magic makes one hungry. I made a casserolle and I'm pretty sure Ana hid some chocolate cake for after dinner. What do you say?"

 

* * *

 

Peggy's heart stops. She's sure it's not only a sudden dramatic wave, but it literally stops for a few seconds.

The first thought is of fear. Being scared for her friends, those who became her family.

Then there's rage. The anger rooted inside, awakening with a boiling fury at the realization she's not there with them. She's not a sorcerer.

She can only stand here helplessly, in that sweet, cozy livingroom, watching the footage displayed on every news channel - young sorcerers defending the city of New York against Hydra's attack.

Lately the warlocks' attacks grew more frequent. After years of a semi-peaceful stasis the anxiety and tension rise again. It's clear that while the vicious raid on New York's district was set to evoke fear it was also chaotic. Not a thought-out plan, more like a test.

A bile forms in Peggy's throat as she thinks of it. Of Schmidt and his warlocks testing out the new generation of sorcerers, seeking for weak spots and attempting to terrify them.

It's all so wrong. They're too young, Erskine's too old.

That thought heightens Peggy's desperate need to get back to America. To help them as much as she can. Damn, to just be there for her friends.

Then, as she watches the same footage repeat, the anger and fear disperse to uncover a void inside of her. One that deepens and fills with sadness as she skims her gaze over her three friends among other young sorcerers.

They're wearing black combat suits. Stark's design, undoubtedly. Peggy remembers Howard talking about some material that helps carrying inner powers and combining it with fabrics that provide more protection against opponent's attack.

They look dangerous. Prepared and fit for the roles they took.

Peggy looks nothing like them.

Tears fill her eyes and she quickly blinks them away. She covers the quivering in her bottom lip with a forced grimace. When she looks at them she sees fighters, a team. While in her own eyes she remains a lost teenager, stuck between becoming a healer and catering to her egoistical desires to become an unqualified sorcerer.

Her pupils widen when a close up of Steve appears on the screen - him jumping in front of some innocent people, curling slightly, with his arm lifted up as if to shield him from the blast.

A sudden spread of blue energy forms an actual magical shield, succesfully keeping off a series of huge blasts directed their way. The shield doesn't even falter in its solidity. Quite the contrary, it seems to intensify. The blue deepens. Then the threads of white and red become noticeable.

And it pierces right through Peggy's heart.

Bucky's white and Natasha's red.

It feels like the ground under her feet disappears abruptly and she can't catch a breath as she falls down.

Steve channels Bucky and Nat's powers. He created a bond with them and uses their potential to enhance his own. A skill only the greatest sorcerers posses, but Peggy doesn't care about the magnificence of it. She cares for that little piece of something meaningful and intimate that's just been ripped from her.

The memory of her purple emanation combining with Steve's blue loses its value. Leaves her hollow.

Peggy runs out of the house, ignoring Ana's calls. She slams the door behind her, blocking the cats from following her.

_Fuck_ , she wants to punch someone.

Mostly Steve.

She runs aimlessly. Through the fields and down the hill, until she has to stop at the river bank. Everything inside her seems to boil. Rushes up and down in waves, evoking nausea.

Peggy's energy claws at her skin, prickles with a rising need to be released. Purple wisps weave themselves around her clenched fists, glowing stronger with each hard breath that she takes.

Peggy suddenly topples over and screams. Screams so loud her own ears hurt.

A thunder ripples through the sky. Seconds later a bright purple lightning strikes the open field.

 

* * *

 

However deeply she shoves her feelings, they always resurface in smaller or bigger waves when she least expects it. It tends to sizzle in her emanation, highliting the electrical substance of it.

Sometimes, though, it overcomes Peggy in a purely emotional downfall, making her heart ache. Whether it's spurred by a trigger connected to her past, or surprises her all of a sudden, seemingly without a reason, the impact of it shakes Peggy deeply.

Ana's theory is that a sorcerer's power is inextricably linked to feelings, even though the control over it is based on logic and physics.

Suppressing emotions disorders the balance of power, which either bursts out or nests so deeply inside it cripples the sorcerer's spirit and mind.

Peggy doesn't feel marred in any way, but she wonders if one can objectively assess their own state. Especially when through the cracks in her calm demeanor shines a purple power that leaves her surroundings covered in sizzling rime.

It's impossible to tell if the power takes over her emotions, or the feelings channel a dangerous magic.

Most likely it's all chained. 

She wants to laugh bitterly at the irony. Her stubborn need to control own emotions was the reason her potential couldn't fully bloom.

Erskine was right. 

For a long time Peggy has been analyzing that dynamic, angrily reasoning that Natasha is even colder in her expression of feelings, yet never had trouble expanding her skills. Until she realized there's a significant difference between control and suppressing. The fact that Nat maintains unmoved and rarely shows any emotion doesn't mean she's not in touch with her feelings. 

Natasha controls her own expressions and reactions, but doesn't disconnect from emotions. 

Peggy has been doing the complete opposite. 

Always quick in her reactions, but running away from processing her feelings. Shove them deep, pretend they don't exist - that was her routine. 

Changing that mechanism isn't easy, though she tries relentlessly. An ongoing battle with herself to develop skills previously suppressed. To become a sorcerer, even if she'll have to hide it. 

There's a spark of hope, however.  Edwin mentioned a friend of his who's a sorcerer in London. One of the famous Spitfires, a group of sorcerers named for their heroic battles against Hydra in London.

Peggy tries not to get her hopes up, but if said James Falsworth is anything like Edwin portrays him to be, then she has a chance of becoming a legal sorcerer in the future.

For now she trains hard, puts a lot of dedication to healing as well. She's damn good at it, too, though it never fills her with true contentment. 

Sometimes it scares Peggy how she prefers wreaking havoc to restoring balance. 

Maybe it's the restlessness inside her. Maybe it's something darker.

 

* * *

 

Whenever someone dies of magic they burn in a blue flame.

Peggy often dreams of bursting ultramarines and cobalts. Memories of the war left a painful mark on her young mind, but the nightmares are no longer flashes of the past. Worldwide tension arising anew creeps under Peggy's skin as well, permeating her dreams with fear. Hydra's reappearance, though only in nuances and seemingly unrelated minor occurrences, induces panic.

While Peggy maintains calm on the surface, her heart pounds with worry. And it shows in her sleep. 

Nightmares about her family dying. People who she grew to trust and love, those she used to call her friends. That boy from the village, Daniel, who comes regularly to get his leg checked - an injury he sustained as a kid during the war. 

Even Jack who is tall, blonde and nicely built, for which Peggy hates him immensely. And with whom she fucked in the old mill.  

When she dreams of Steve dying, his tricolored shield shattered in quickly fading spheres, it's not only the fear that wakes her drenched in sweat. The image of his body swallowed in blue, a color that is his primary, pierces through Peggy with an agonizing pain. 

The ache spreads under her breastbone, fills her chest with heaviness of lead. She sobs, but it comes out choked, soundless.

It's been twelve years since the last time she saw him, felt him. 

The news about Erskine's death reaches Peggy a few hours before it hits every channel around the globe. One of the most powerful sorcerers, the one who pushed Schmidt into the underground, ending the first war, has fallen. Killed in an ambush.

Despite the years of bitter anger, Peggy feels a pang of grief over the loss.

He sent her away, but he also took care of her. He was a mentor, a true Master in the sorcery area. Peggy has always thought him indestructible. Even with the rising terror a part of her strongly believed Hydra will be defeated thanks to Erskine.

Now the faith is gone.

Stark is exceptionally skilled, but lacks the stoic power. He's too chaotic and unpredictable himself to provide humanity with a sense of stability.

As she lies on her bed, staring mindlessly at the ceiling, Peggy wonders if there's anyone able to fill Erskine's shoes.

As always, Steve's image appears. Somehow her treacherous mind finds loopholes in her control and slips in his face whenever it wants. Mostly when she's distressed.

She tells herself it's because of the news and the pictures of his grave face plastered all over the web. Someone caught Steve right after the idiot had chased after and caught one of the perpetrators. Alone.

Jaw set, eyes downcast, a shadow across his face as he stared at the ashes of a warlock he had just killed.

A tear rolls down Peggy's cheek. She knows how much Erskine meant to Steve. How his death has to hurt.

Being unable to be there for him now makes her feel helpless. And useless.

 

* * *

 

The scent lingering in the house reminds of a forest right after a heavy storm. It's maybe a little heavier, more stifling, but surprisingly not repulsive.

It should be!

Whenever Peggy thinks of death, of fear, of blood, it's associated with the worst smell, something that would make you vomit. She can't recall what she scented when blue flames engulfed bodies during the first war, but she's sure it wasn't what surrounds her now. 

For the first time the cottage feels cold and strange. Repulsive with the electrical aroma hanging in the air.

A flash of blue keeps reappearing in Peggy's mind.

No. It was purple.

A grid of crackling purple power with which she knocked Whitney Frost to the ground, surprising herself with it. It wasn't just luck. Peggy felt the purposeful current surge through her, consciously aiming it at the witch. All bulbs burst into pieces as the wave of power filled the volume of the room then shrinked to a blinding globe that striked Frost in the chest.

In a blink of an eye Peggy's characteristic purple emanation exploded in a blue flame, consuming Frost's body. Only a thin layer of shimmering dust left on the floor. 

At the moment Peggy had no time to think of the kill for another Hydra witch had sneaked up on her.

Underwood's red, sticky web of magic burned through Peggy's clothes, seeping into her skin with a scorching pain. She remembers screaming and falling down. For a few, long seconds it felt as if she was dying, unable to make any move as the searing numbness settled deeper and deeper into her bones.

A hiss of a cat, followed by Underwood's yelp, barely reached Peggy's ears.

Her gaze, though blurry, found Ana's lifeless eyes staring at her across the floor. Pale face, red hair in a braided crown, a trickle of blood in the corner of her eye. Ana's hand was outstretched as if reaching out to someone. Killed not by magic, but the impact of the outburst that took down Edwin. 

The pang of pain in Peggy's chest abruptly blew wider, hurting her physically with invisible lacerations. It grew stronger, barely bearable, but the ache seemed to push Underwood's magic out, filling red marks with white light.

Throbbing pain under Peggy's breastbone spread upwards, over her left breast and toward the collarbone, like a ramification of veins pulsing with power. It hurt like hell.

It also filled Peggy's body with a rush of energy threatening to rip her apart.

Stretching her arms forward, Peggy focused the surge at Underwood. Threads sparkled in the air, surrounding Underwood, tightening. An electrical net that trapped her in. Then, with a mercilessly cold thought, Peggy clenched her fists and the grid cut through the witch like lasers.

A loud shrill a split of a second before the flame of blue burned Underwood into nothing.

It should be impossible, Peggy thinks as she stares at her own fingers now. Still shaking. So unbelievably cold, considering the burst of power that went through them mere minutes ago.

A force that no healer should possess.

 

* * *

 

A drop of blood falls into the sink, red stain stretching between the water droplets on the porcelain surface.

Peggy bites her lip to suppress a scream that nearly rips out of her throat at the sight of her own reflection in the oval mirror above the sink. Her fingers clench on the brim. 

Pale face and streaks of wet hair - a sight not terrifying enough for her to react so violently. 

The thin line of pulsing, purple power that appeared on her chest is.

It looks like a scar, with smooth edges, filled with a liquid stream that flows through it and disappears beneath her skin. 

In a rush of panic Peggy tires to rub it off. Scratch off the residue of a nightmare that threatens to kick her straight into another horror. It's futile. It results only in her skin reddening around the gash where she rubbed forcefully.

It can't be a coincidence that it appears now, hours after the terror swallowed the warm cottage in darkness. The ripple of power which felt like tearing Peggy from the inside, could it rip her at the seams literally?

But the wound doesn't hurt. No sensation comes from it, actually.  Just the steady pulsing in sync with Peggy's own heartbeat. A humming vibration of a well known energy - her own magic. 

Peggy doesn't know how it's possible. She doesn't know what  _the fuck_  it actually is. There's no one she could ask about it. She doesn't yet trust Falsworth, whom she called right after her brain reconnected with reality. Not enough to show him the scar.

Tears sting her eyes, a sob splutters from her lips. Peggy quickly covers her mouth with a shaky hand. The other palm she presses over the newly formed mark on her chest, feeling a somewhat reassuring tingle of life beneath her fingers. 

Slowly, she slumps down to the floor. 

There's really no one, Peggy realizes. She has no one.

And nowhere to go either.

 

* * *

 

Battles between sorcerers are a splash of colors and light. What Peggy witnesses now is a silent, magicless duel between two experienced sorcerers. The tension as high as in an uncompromising confrontation.

Peggy is fucking tired of men deciding of her future, arguing where to abandon this unwanted puppy. 

But she's lost, with no determination beside the need for vengeance. Even if she could stay here, Peggy wouldn't be able to live in a death-stained cottage, crumbling and shriveling under the weight of dark memories. 

The very first thought when Falsworth asked her if she has a place to stay, was of the Stark's mansion, with its familiar coldness and untended orchard. A place that for a short time became her home, apparently somehow rooting itself deeply inside of her, making Peggy miss it even twelve years later.

Or maybe it's the presence of someone that she yearns for.

She didn't, however, name that place, only shrugged.

Not a sorcerer, not a healer yet either - what place could there be for her? 

James Falsworth apparently disagreed with her, deciding she should be brought back under the wings of her former Masters. With Erskine dead and Howard being a part of the World Sorcerers Council, other skilled sorcerers took over the academy. Expanded it. 

Nicholas Fury among them.

He flew to England within twenty-four hours, though Peggy suspects it has more to do with Hydra's activity and the attack on the Jarvises than with her current homelessness. 

„We've got healers, damn skilled ones. Why would I take one not certified yet?” Fury crosses his arms over his chest.

„You do.” James Falsworth shows no sing of being in any way intimidated by the presence of the sorcerer who dared to ignore the World Council's orders in the past.

He acknowledges Fury's connections and influence on the international forces, as well admires the man's determination, but Spitfires have seen the death and blood on the first lines. A harsh attitude and deadly glare isn't going to make him falter.

„However great your healers are, none of them were taught by Edwin and Ana.”

Until now, Peggy thought it's just respect for Edwin and Ana's accomplishments shining through worldwide opinions of them. But there's a distinctive twitch in Fury's jaw, his gaze averting for a moment before landind back on Peggy with an expectant assessment, similar to the one she saw in Erskine's eyes when he looked at Steve.

In an instant she knows the decision he makes won't be out of kindness, but based solely on the value of her skills.

Peggy's not sure if Fury suspects she's the one who killed two Hydra warlocks. Falsworth made sure to bury that information, smoothly forming a cover story in which he fought the attackers who happened to appear there while he was visiting.

It's a quite believable story. Besides, no one would really believe an uncertified healer has taken down two powerful opponents.

If they did, that would put Peggy under a scrutinizing process which could toss her into a windowless cell with daily interrogations as the only activity.

The way Fury looks at her, however, makes Peggy fear he senses the lie in the story Falsworth presented.

The question is - if so, will he dig for the truth, or let it pass?

"Fine." Fury's tone is emotionless when he finally speaks. He moves past Peggy toward the exit, not glancing back at either of them. "Start packing, Miss Carter. Tomorrow you'll be back in the States."


	2. The Bond

The building never made a particular impression on her when Peggy saw it on tv. Like everything in the States, it always seemed unnecessarily big and cold. She's aware a part of her distaste comes from the carefully nurtured grudge. She doesn't care. 

Standing right in front of it, however, having to tilt her head nearly painfully back to look at the top, brings a hint of intimidation.

Or maybe the trepidation for who's inside has Peggy's heart hammering in her chest.

The Triskelion.

The official background story for its name claims it's a symbol of the three main forces joined against the evil - sorcerers, healers, humans.

Such bullshit.

Peggy herself is more inclined to believe it's Howard Stark's self love shining through it, a bow to the three most powerful sorcerers - Erskine, Strange, and Stark himself.

But Erskine's dead. Though still spoken of with respect and admiration, slowly his name fades away from people's memory. Strange has secluded himself in the Asian stronghold, withdrawing from any fighting. Stark hadn't participated in a battle for the past decade, apparently more interested in developing technology to help other sorcerers expand their powers.

She wonders if Howard acknowledges other sorcerers have taken the title of the most skilled and powerful. Hill and Fury definitely are on that pedestal - the leading generals of the World Council. 

There's also king T'Challa, along with his squadrons of ancient Dora Milaje, who managed to keep Hydra off Wakanda's lands despite their vicious relentlessness to get to the vibranium mines and the ancient sorcery scrolls hidden in the depths of T'Challa's palace.

She ponders if they all acknowledge that a young sorcerer here in the Triskelion is on his way to become stronger than Erskine and Stark combined. 

The Captain, as the media have titled him when at the mere age of seventeen he lead troops to victory against Schmidt's warlocks.

Steve Rogers might become the most powerful in history and Peggy can't help but see him as the cheeky boy who nearly got an asthma attack when trying to climb her window. The boy, the memory of whose arms around her small frame still sends shivers down her spine. 

The prospect of meeting him again terrifies her. Not for the awkwardness that undoubtedly would be present after twelve years of no contact, but for the warmth her stupid heart pumps through her veins whenever she thinks of him. 

Hands sweaty, heart pounding, Peggy follows Fury and Hill into Triskelion. She stayed awake the whole flight, mentally preparing herself for the reunion with her former friends. A rather cold one, she suspects. On both sides.

However, there's no one waiting.

She steps right into a typical, daily routine at the headquarters, with people swarming around like little, busy ants. Humans in office positions, recruits in light grey suits, lower rank sorcerers in darker grey, a few healers in distinctive white-blue. Each focused on their task, merely acknowledging director Fury's presence with a respectful nod.

Not a sign of a single high rank sorcerer in that black stealth suit reserved for those on the first line in combat - the Avengers. 

Reasonably, she should feel relief. It's not like she wanted to see any of them. Not really.

Somehow it still hurts. 

A dull ache in Peggy's chest spreads, filling it with heaviness and burning like that evening when Howard took her away.

 

* * *

 

There are three things Peggy learns rather quickly.

The first one is that Nick Fury doesn't give a fuck about her.

Suspicion that he might drill her to get to the truth about the events at the cottage fades away, because the man doesn't turn his eye at her even once since dropping her at the healers' wing.

Second, Helen Cho is amazing. Within a day of working alongside the lead healer Peggy decided to give her life for Helen should the need ever arise. She's also determined to absorb every bit of knowledge that woman shares. Helen's a brilliant, kind and a no-bullshit sort of person. Being able to work for her sweetens the deeply settled resentment Peggy feels for this place in general.

The third revelation is the fact she might never bump into Steve, or any other Avenger for that matter, however long she stays here.

Sorcerers, especially those of a higher rank, don't even breathe the same air as other classes of Triskelion's employees. Their quarters and training spaces are on separate floors where no one has the need, or clearance, to be. They have a separate mess hall, too, because their schedule tends to be unpredictable. Which makes meals much easier for Peggy, since she doesn't have to worry about choking if Rogers suddenly comes for lunch.  

Seems the only time a healer sees a sorcerer is when they need medical help. 

Even that doesn't happen too often because, according to Helen, the Avengers are taught basic healing skills for minor wounds and ailments. During combat it increases the chances of survival - not only being able to help each other before the healers arrive, but taking care of those with minor wounds, so the healers can focus on the seriously injured, downscaling the number of dead.

It fills Peggy with peace, knowing she can roam the halls without fear of bumping into one of them. It's simpler that way, not having to face the feelings buried under years of resentment and hurt.

For a long time she has struggled to accept she'll never see Steve. Focusing on studies and expanding her powers efficiently cut the opportunities to long for the childhood friendship. She finally built a tranquil life within her composed shell.   

The calm demeanor can shatter, leaving her exposed and bleeding, if Steve appears in front of her. Somehow she knows he'd tear through her walls without difficulty.  

It's much easier to function when that threat vanishes.

This way she can operate and sleep without the sense of restlessness creeping up her spine. 

 

* * *

 

It used to faintly pulse with purple. The scar on Peggy's chest that unknown force had engraved in her soft skin the night she killed Frost and Underwood.

A small, irregular pattern reminding of a broken branch. Thin and delicate, merely a scratch that one of her cats could have left, if not for the vibrant purple stream coursing through it.

She hasn't told anyone about it, taking it as a battle scar, in spite of the voice of reason that warned her. There had to be some cost for the clash of magic that burst through the cottage that night, Peggy tells herself. 

The violet shimmer filling the crease comes from Peggy's own primary color, turning lighter or darker, depending on the day. It pulses steadily, in rhythm with her heartbeat. No ache, no itching.

It's a truly small price to pay, she convinces herself daily.

Peggy stares at the scar in the mirror, tracing her fingertips along the smooth edges. 

It has spread.

She doesn't know when, or how. Hadn't noticed until now. Focused on her new duties, as well consumed with adrenaline that is much harder to blow away when she has to be so very cautious about her sorcery practices, Peggy often skips on the self-time. 

She looks at it now, frowning as she takes in all the changes. The branch-shaped scar filled with power grew its twigs further down her sternum and onto her left breast. 

There's also an unmistakable blue spark flickering through the purple.

The awaited panic at the prospect of dying in blue flames doesn't take over, though Peggy would honestly prefer that dread to what she senses is the real cause of her scar changing. Not that she wants to die, not particularly. 

But it seems more appealing compared to figuring out how the hell has Steve's primary bloomed in her wound.

It is his emanation, Peggy knows it. It's not even a suspicion, she feels it. 

Hates it. 

"Fuck!" Peggy slams her hand against the mirrored cabinet. Purple frost spreads on the glass sheet, disappearing as soon as she takes her hand away. 

Quickly, she puts on a T-shirt and exits the bathroom. She goes to bed and curls under the covers, hoping that sleep takes over soon and she won't be left battling with her thoughts. All stained with Steve Rogers' handsome face. 

Yet her fingers itch to touch the wound over her heart, to feel the strong pulse of blue magic. 

Instead, she turns onto her side, clasps her hands together and stuffs them under the pillow. She swears she won't touch anything blue for the rest of her life. 

 

* * *

 

Air thickens in her lungs, filling her chest with icy heaviness. It clenches around her heart, inconsiderate of its panicked, rapid flutter.

Frozen in mid-step, Peggy watches as a triptych of faint colors bursts through the infirmary door. And through the safe bubble she thought herself to be wrapped in. 

Blue, white and red still glow on the thin stripes of special fabric sewn into the slick, black material of their combat suits. Peggy doesn't need to see their primary colors to recognize them, though.

Three ghosts from her past returning in a stormy aftermath of violence and death. Blood and dirt mark their bodies.

Bucky is slumped between Steve and Nat, his weight dragging as they carry him inside. His head is bowed down, dark hair sticky with sweat and blood. The shimmering white power, surging through the gussets on his suit, starts to fade.

"Put him on the table!" Helen's voice breaks through Peggy's haze, snapping her back to attention. 

A sudden surge of adrenaline has her moving in an instant, acting on instincts and knowledge. She moves forward, keeping her head low as she helps them ease Bucky down on the cold surface of a medical table.

No one recognizes her, or even notices her presence - their focus solely on Bucky.

Good. That's where Peggy's focus has to be as well.

As she performs a quick assesment of Bucky's wounds Peggy can't help herself and gently brushes his hair from his forehead. Bucky's handsome face is constricted in pain. Pale skin shines with perspiration.

For a short moment he opens his eyes, unfocussed gaze roaming around in mild panic as if searching for something familiar. Or someone. Then he closes his eyes with a little sigh.

Peggy notices Natasha's slender fingers entwined with his.

The redhead says nothing, not a single word of reassurance. Natasha never was one to overuse her words, no matter the circumstances, but Peggy knows what value a simple gesture holds.

There's an urge to glance Steve's way, check where he stands in it all, but Peggy refrains from even peeking at him.

She refocuses her attention on James and the sizzle of darkness seeping from one of his wounds that makes her anxious. A distinctive aura of malevolence which Peggy had felt oh too closely not so long ago. When the dark red burst of Underwood's magic ate through her body she somehow managed to repell it, though still not sure how. Bucky's power is unable to fight it.

With growing apprehension, Peggy observes Helen's fluid moves - a graceful dance above Bucky's trembling body. Light blue power sinks through his suit where the healer's hands linger longer, seemingly easing the excruciating pain he's in.

It closes minor wounds by coaxing patient's own power to work on rebuilding cells. The big gash on his left arm, however, will need more than his own magic can provide, even if the white essence is already glimmering inside it. 

White shade seems to darken, taking on a razor sharp glint of a molten blade that cuts through Bucky's skin and muscle.

He grits his teeth, but when Helen moves her hands over his arm he screams. A sound more agonizing than anything Peggy has ever heard.

Ana and Edwin went down so quietly.

Tears prickle at Peggy's eyes, but she tries staying calm and let Helen work, though a part of her wants to throw herself between them and shield her friend from harm.

Peggy focuses on the flux of power, studying the light blue flames licking the open wound. Bucky's magic appears to be resisting the healing. That's when she realizes it's not the white she saw in the gash, but a silver poison of a warlock that embeded itself deep inside. The more power Helen pushes his way, the more it spreads and fights.

"Stop!" Peggy grabs Helen's wrists, pulling her hands away from Bucky. "Stop. You're making it worse."

"What are you-" Helen's eyes blaze with anger, flickers of pale blue power adding to the fire in her brown irises.

"There's residue inside the wound," Peggy interrupts her, a hint of despair in her voice. "Please, look at it closely. The more healing power you aim its way, the deeper it roots."

With a scowl, Helen leans down, inspecting the laceration up close. She, too, has made the mistake of taking it as Barnes' own power pushing through from the inside. 

"Such a malevolent act," Helen shakes her head in bewilderment when she recognizes the difference.

Injuries sustained in combat with warlocks often carry remnants of the opponent's power, but it dissipates in the healing process. Never has any energy taken root inside the wound, acting like a parasite. 

Hydra's walrocks have expanded their sick power. It's a development she will have to report to director Fury. And to Stark as well. 

Helen turns to look at Carter. If not for the young healer, Helen's procedings would lead to Barnes' torment and possible, untreatable damage, if not even death.

Peggy's gaze stays on the patient, a shadow crossing her face as she assesses the chances of getting him out of this mess alive.

"I think," Peggy says with no masked hesitation- "we need to destroy it first."

It occurs to her in that moment that's what her power did back in England. The surge that rushed through her wasn't to regain equilibrium, but to attack the energy gnawing through her arm. Peggy shattered it with her own power as if breaking a glass casing.

When she glances Helen's way she notices vacillation on the healer's face. 

A healer is not a sorcerer.

Though the core of healer's magic provides basic survival and protection skills, they're not offensive. Sorcerers, on the other hand, lack the gentleness and body mindfulness when it comes to directing their energy at someone in a non lethal intention.

Peggy sees her opportunity in the fact she's the only person in the world who ever got a chance to learn maintaining both sides of her power.

She's also the only one who studied at Ana and Edwin's. Their only apprentice. They never mentioned performing a procedure like this, but no one knows what truly have they taught her. 

"I'll do it." Peggy doesn't ask for permission, knowing any hesitation on her part would convince Helen not to let her try. 

For a moment she fears the skepticism showing in Cho's eyes will win, but Helen only gives a short nod of approval. 

"Tell me how can I help." Helen moves to the side, letting Peggy take her place.

"When I destroy it, start healing him, but focus on the nerve damage." Peggy states confidently. She remembers the numbing pain and feeling of paralysis taking over her body. 

Nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Peggy leans over to look at Bucky's face. 

"Bucky."

She waits for him to open his eyes, mindless of the attention she might draw to herself by revealing she knows the name only close friends call James Barnes. 

He has trouble opening his eyes, weariness encumbering his eyelids. When he finally forces them to open his pupils widen then contract, back and forth for a few seconds, until his gaze focuses on her face. 

A frown creases his forehead and he blinks as if expecting the false image to disappear. 

"Peggy?" Bucky's voice is a hoarse whisper when he speaks her name.

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, Bucky," Peggy gives them no time for any sort of rapprochement, bluntly cutting to the situation at hand. "There's a shard of the enemy's power stuck in your wound. We can't just heal you with it still in. I have to get rid of it first, do you understand?"

Bucky gives a faint nod and for a second Peggy worries he's so deep in the pain haze that he takes it all for a delusion, but when he takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw tight she realizes he understands her meaning. 

"I'm sorry, but it will hurt as hell," she winces. 

It seems Bucky is more prepared for receiving the pain than she is to give it. 

"Do your worst, Peg," he mumbles then closes his eyes. 

 

* * *

 

Black gives ground to a blurry grey, the night turning into early dawn when Peggy finishes her detailed report on the procedure she performed on Barnes.

It could be her first and last official report, depending on how deeply Fury's distrust runs. 

One person she doesn't have to worry about is Helen Cho, who shown only awe at what Peggy has done. 

Undoubtedly, Helen also realised the current sparkling between Peggy's fingers as she burst the silver layers filling Bucky's laceration wasn't a pure healing power. She made no mention of it, however. Something tells Peggy it won't be mentioned in Helen's report either. 

Peggy leaves the small office attached to the laboratory space and crosses empty corridors until she reaches the infirmary.

Bucky lies on the hospital bed, clearly having borrowed pillows from three other beds and making himself very comfortable.  

Natasha's sitting on the chair beside his bed, her feet on the mattress next to Bucky's hip. 

Steve's nowhere in sight.

Their voices hush down as Peggy approaches, but their gazes immediately settle on her, following her every move. Observers, they've always proved to be unusually perceptive. Peggy's not sure if they're studying her closely out of curiosity, or they see a possible threat in her. 

Without a word, Peggy examines the healed wound on Bucky's arm. Flickers of light, blue power linger on the reddened area, the process of healing still in motion. The scar has a shape of a crooked star, sans one arm.

Peggy refrains from tracing it with her finger.

Putting up a wall of cold indifference serves best for the storm brewing inside her. It's the last remnant of composure, she feels. All she really wants right now is to lock herself in her quarters and cry into a pillow. Then pretend it never happened.

She saved him. She saved Bucky. Yet it's the fear and anger that bubble under her skin, not relief. Her chest feels heavy, her mouth filled with bitterness.

Vestiges of magic, she tells herself. 

Her fingers tremble and she clenches her hand into a fist to stop the shaking. Quickly, she reaches for the tablet and browses through Bucky's medical history as if searching for something important.

"When did you get back?" Bucky asks her, tilting his head so he can catch her gaze. Peggy purposely keeps her head down, avoiding any contact.

"A couple of weeks ago," she answers neutrally, tapping away on the thin tablet. 

Bucky frowns at that, exchanging a quick glance with Nat.

"They never told us you got back." If that's his way of making apologies for not running into her earlier, Peggy doesn't care. She doesn't need any apologies. Doesn't  _want_  to need anything from any of them.

"Why would they?" Peggy shrugs. "I doubt they tell you of any changes among other fractions here." 

"They will. From now on." Natasha states calmly, not a single muscle in her face twitching, though Peggy recognizes a hint of amusement in her tone.

She feels that Natasha's statement has little to do with her own steps toward changing the flow of information regarding Triskelion's human resources department. More with confidence in someone else's interference in that matter.

Steve's, undoubtedly.

Peggy's fingers clench on the crystal tablet. A spark of purple sizzles across the screen, nearly destroying it.

 

* * *

 

He's become her shadow. A silent, annoying shadow unabashedly placing himself in near proximity whenever Peggy ends her shift. 

Indifference doesn't deter him. Steve always was so fucking stubborn.

Each time Peggy leaves the infirmary, Steve's there. Leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed and a stormy look on his face.

A statue of brooding. 

Apparently he's viewed as dangerous not only by the enemies, but people at the Triskelion as well. When Peggy - out of pure spite - decided to join a small party and flirted back with one of the apprentices Steve's presence made the guy back away quicker than her cats darted at the sound of bath. 

She wanted to yell at him then, but in her persistent decision to ignore him she opted for a murderous glare only. The bastard just shrugged.

Peggy's sure they've become the source of entertainment for Nat and Bucky. Possibly for other Avengers too. She pretends not to care.

But after a second week of being stalked by Rogers, Peggy's patience is wearing thin. 

"What the bloody hell do you want Rogers?" She hisses upon seeing him leaning against the railing outside the infirmary when she steps out for lunch.

He looks at her with an unreadable expression and for a moment Peggy thinks he won't reply at all.

"So you do remember me," Steve finally says. Corner of his mouth twitches. She's unsure whether it's a smirk, or a flash of anger. "For a while I thought my meek existence was erased from your memory. Given the warm welcome I get each time you see me."

Peggy stares at him, a little stunned. 

"Fuck you, Rogers." She snarls at him and turns on her heel.

She doesn't look over her shoulder to check if he follows, just stomps her way down the hall. 

She expects him to leave her this time, to stay away after the short, harsh encounter. However, when she enters the mess hall and an awkward silence suddenly fills the space Peggy realizes Steve undoubtedly came right behind her. 

Sorcerers never come to the common mess hall. Avengers certainly do not. 

"You're going to give these people a heart attack," Peggy grumbles. She feels him moving behind her as she takes a tray and joins the line for food. 

Peggy feigns disinterest in what Steve does as he follows and takes a seat opposite of her at the table. 

They eat in silence. Steve makes no further attempt at talking to her, for which she is actually grateful. Whenever she glances his way, however, she finds him watching her intently. 

It's only when the smartband on his wrist illuminates and a low beeping has Steve jumping up in alert that Peggy looks at him. Their eyes meet for a split of a second and then he's gone, running out in full sprint. 

Fear grips at her heart. Burning sensation jolts through the scar on her chest. 

 

* * *

 

Unleashed energy pulses inside her. Trapped currents of power magnify, rolling into a tight swirl under her heart, as Peggy's worry increases with each passing day that she doesn't hear any news about Steve. 

Four days in which she should rest from Steve's nagging presence. Instead, her eyes search for him whenever she leaves her quarters or the infirmary. 

All she has learned, by not so casually asking Helen, is that a team of Avengers was sent to Lagos. On an unexpected alert, to cooperate with a group of local sorcerers in an attempt to prevent a squadron of warlocks stealing sensitive information. 

It appears that Hydra is rapidly changing its previous, havoc-oriented activities into a deviously thought-out scheme. Their powers evolved too, implying Schmidt's people might've found some annals that were unknown to the World Council.

Defence against brutal attacks has to change now into counteracting. A dangerous game with much higher stakes. Stakes that could demand Steve's sacrifice.

Peggy checks her scar daily.

As long as the flickering blue shines through the purple of her power, she reassures herself that Steve's still alive. He has to, if his power is pulsing so lively. 

Somehow Peggy convinced herself that a remnant of one's magic wouldn't fade away until the owner's death. There's no proof of that. Nothing in the books, or records, that could support Peggy's theory, but she tells the voice of reason there are ancient scrolls out there in the world, hidden from most, which possibly hold such knowledge. 

Jarring, how hard it is to cope with worry now. 

Being separated by distance and resentment quelled the concern, even if a bolt of fear pierced through Peggy's heart whenever she heard of another attack on American soil. 

Seeing Steve again so close has marred that peaceful bubble of disregard. 

Peggy's fingers tremble as she glides them over a soft gauze. A thin thread of purple power seeps from her fingertips, weaving itself into the fabric's filaments. Soaking bandages with healing power, in order to provide basic first aid in case of multiple emergencies, requires patience and gentleness.

Traits Peggy has trouble maintaining at the moment. 

She already ruined two dressings when her suppressed power ignited in a wild spark. 

Fortunately, no one's there to witness it. The other healers left few hours ago and Helen has locked herself in the lab, studying the residue of the silvery power that was stuck in Bucky's arm, trying to comprehend the way it works. 

A current sizzles between Peggy's fingers and she quickly clenches them into a fist to avoid destroying another gauze. 

As if on cue, the laboratory door opens and Helen walks out. She stops, seeing Peggy. Surprise widening her eyes.

"You're still here?" Helen asks, walking over. With a quick glance she checks Peggy's progress on the dressings. She also notices traces of purple dust on the table. 

"Yes," Peggy nods and pushes the finished bandage aside, swiping the dust off in the process. "I wanted to finish it. You never know in what shape the Avengers come back from their mission."  

Helen's mouth curves in a faint smile. She puts her hand on Peggy's shoulder and nods.

"Don't stay up too late," she says before walking out of the infirmary. 

Peggy picks a new gauze and unfolds it when the main door opens again with a soft hiss. 

"You forgot something?" She asks, not turning back. 

There's no response, however. A few seconds later Peggy hears the chair creaking and someone's sigh of relief. 

She looks over her shoulder, immediately standing up when she notices Steve slumped on the chair by the wall.

He's still in his combat suit. Dirt and blood covers the black fabric, but the blue power pulsates strongly in the gussets of special material sewn into the uniform. It fills Peggy with mild comfort, knowing he's very much alive, though battered. 

Steve's hair is mussed, face grimy. His eyes are closed as he tilts his head back. 

Peggy instantly realizes he had to come here straight from the quinjet.

"Are you okay?" she rushes to him, but stops herself from reaching out and touching. At least until he says he needs medical assistance. "Are you injured?" 

After a long moment, Steve opens his eyes. Peggy notices how vibrant the blue in his irises is. It makes the cold, silver filaments immersed within them stand out. She wonders if it happens only after an extreme usage of power, or have they turned so permanently. 

Steve looks at her, studying her face with faint apprehension.

"I'm good," he says, making no move to change his awkward position against the wall. If anything, he looks ready to fall asleep there. 

"Yeah, you look very  _good_ ," Peggy rolls her eyes. 

"Minor scratches. They'll heal." Steve shrugs and cringes as the movement evokes a jolt of pain in his shoulder. "I'm hungry, though. Want to grab a bite?" 

Peggy stares at him. She could accuse him of being stupid just to show off, but it's so typical of Steve to deny any physical weakness. Twelve or twenty-seven, he's the same. Heart of gold contained in a mass of stubborn and reckless.

Why disliking him just won't come easy to her? 

Instead, her heart flutters happily at the prospect of being near him. Energies throb in her scar with renewed strength.

With a sigh, Peggy gives in.

 

* * *

 

Heart pounds in her chest. Peggy can feel her crazy pulse throbbing in the tips of her fingers. It's not the power's influence, though.

It's Steve's hand holding hers tightly.

The constant surge of magic in her veins seems bland compared to this feeling.

A stubborn voice in her head tempts to shake his hand off, but the need to cling to Steve is far too strong. It's been so long since they've been in such proximity. 

She glances at their joined hands in wonder. Steve's much bigger than hers. A grid of veins protrudes in his skin, reminding Peggy of the pattern of the scar pulsing on her own chest. 

"We're going somewhere in particular, or you're just enjoying making me race after you?" Peggy tries to sound irritated, but a hint of amused excitement resounds in her tone. 

One of them always followed the other, though for a long time Steve was the one who barely could keep up with her. Now Peggy has to rush to match his long strides. 

"What if it's both?" Steve grins cheekily at her. 

He tugs on her hand, leading her through the line of trees surrounding the Triskelion. Frowning, Peggy notices the edge of the foundation encircling the building - a sharp brink high above the water. The bridges connecting it to the shore are too far away to reach from here. 

As they stop at the verge Steve drops her hand. Peggy clenches her fingers, still feeling the warmth on her skin where he touched her. 

Steve turns to her, his back to the precipice. At least seven meters above the cold, grey water flowing below. 

With an impudent grin, he takes a step back, balancing on the edge. Then jumps down. 

"Steve!"

Peggy throws herself forward, landing on her knees on the brim. A surge of power, driven by pure impulse of fear, fills her cells, straining under her skin with a sizzling force. 

Leaning onward, she looks down over the edge... only to find Steve looking right back at her from less than three meters below. 

He's standing on a wide berm. A maintenance passage of sorts, she realizes. There's even an iron ladder built into the concrete, which Peggy hadn't noticed earlier, and which has to be used by reasonable people who want to get down there.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" Peggy hisses at him, so very tempted to direct the power bubbling within her at him, make the asshole fly over the railing into the Potomac.

He deserves it. 

The arrogant smile on his face disperses, replaced by a solemn repentance when he notices Peggy's fingers clenching on the harsh edge so hard her knuckles turn white. He doesn't apologize, however. Instead, he reaches his hand out to help Peggy down the ladder.

She flips him off then gracefully jumps down. 

"I should be the one offended," Steve huffs when she refuses to even look at him. "You didn't stop my fall." 

Arms crossed over her chest, nose wrinkled in annoyance, Peggy keeps her gaze fixated on the horizon. She knows damn well what he means. When he fell off the tree her power bursted out to slow his descent and minimize the damage. 

Instinct surged her magic mere seconds ago as well, but she was too stunned to let it out. Or maybe she wasn't scared enough. As if sensing this wasn't a real danger, only Steve being an idiot. 

"Well, I'm not a sorcerer, am I?" Peggy's tone is sharp and cold - a razor cutting deep. Slowly, she turns to look at Steve. "Don't worry, if you broke your bones, I'd put you back together."

A grim shadow crosses Steve's face. He meets her gaze with a mirroring chagrin, his jaw clenched. 

"Back to bullshit, I see," he nods, a bitter tinge to his voice. "Might as well continue it at the top." 

He doesn't check if Peggy follows when he moves, striding down the berm toward the Triskelion. He knows she will, even if only to lash at him and start an argument.

Honest communication has always been a hardship for Peggy, provoking a fight came much easier. 

Steve's not going to make it easy for her. 

Peggy stalks after him without a word. When they reach the main bulding Peggy notices small rungs ascending the high wall, perfectly hidden within a narrow cavity. Steve steps to the side, motioning for her to climb first. 

The rungs are cold and coarse, but at least not slippery. Which is a blessing given how fucking high they have to climb. The question if they couldn't break into the elevator dies in her throat before she voices it. Reaching the highest levels of Triskelion requires a special clearance, she doubts even Steve has it, despite his rank. 

Wind lashes Peggy's cheek with harsh licks the higher she climbs. A cold chill ripples through her body, making her cling to the ladder. About halfway up the building the rungs end, spiking mild panic in Peggy's chest. There's only naked, flat wall above her, nothing to grip. 

"Ste-" before Peggy finishes a flash of vibrant blue flickers above her head. 

Bars of blue energy appear on the wall. They crackle with unsubstantial power, yet when Peggy hesitantly touches one with her fingers it appears solid. 

Though each time she grips the magic-induced rung adrenaline fizzles in her blood, Peggy continues to climb. With surprising trust in Steve's power to keep her safe. 

They make it to the roof, finally. Peggy's heart pounds in her chest, only partly from exertion. She keeps close to Steve as they move further into the centre of the chopper landing. 

In awe, she looks around at the breathtaking view of Washington drowning in dusk - blood orange dipping into ink hue, last glimmers of sunlight reflecting in the buildings.

She turns to look at Steve, his profile a constrast of sharp angles and soft details. Chiselled jaw and supple lips. Straight nose and a curve of long eyelashes. 

"It's beautiful." Peggy whispers, forcing her attention back to the horizon. 

Heavy uneasiness settles in her stomach, rising bitter taste into her mouth. Peggy knows that feeling, it comes always when her mind ventures to imagine Steve's life without her in it. Right now she's stepped right into it and feels like an uninvited observer.

This is Steve's city now, his place. And this is his spot where he's probably taken-

Peggy clears her throat before any whimper has a chance to form. 

"Is this your special spot?" She asks, aiming for complacency. "Yours, Bucky and Nat's?"

Steve snorts at that, rolling his eyes. He sits down, bracing hs forearms on his bent knees. 

"Sure, 'cause I'd like nothing more than to be a third wheel when they make out." 

Peggy frowns, watching him in silence for a long moment. Acerbic snark which always was Steve's trade mark seems to have deepened. Became more bitter, too. 

Sitting down next to him, her legs crossed, Peggy shrugs- "You're channeling their powers, doesn't look like you're a third wheel." 

"I wasn't," Steve admits. He leans back and lies down, placing his hands under his head. "Things change." He closes his eyes. 

"But you're still able to create the shield," Peggy points out, not realizing the sulky tinge in her tone. She tilts her head to the side, watching his face in search of any tales. "So what went wrong?" 

Steve is silent, his eyes still closed. Not a single grimace appears that would betray his irritation, or pain. Until a muscle in his jaw twitches, barely visible. His tone, however, is calm when he replies. 

"Hard to love anyone else when I have you branded into my skin."

 

* * *

 

Peggy didn't want to think about it. She refused to react to Steve's words then on the roof, though a surge of emotions rushed through her veins. Her chest seemed to expand with a new sort of power, pulsating in the scar nested above her heart.

Warmth which she craved and at the same time was scared to let in. Too vulnerable to allow it taking over only to have it ripped away later when they send her away again. 

However, what she took for a metaphor at first shapes to be more literal the more she thinks of Steve's words. 

It's the vibrating hum of power in the scar on her chest that has Peggy jumping out of the bed in the middle of the night. Its steady rhythm so sleepy compared to the burst of anger leading Peggy out of her bedroom. 

Accessing the Avengers' floor seems to be an obstacle that'll crush her plan to storm into Steve's room and demand clear answers - the entrance a hightech lock with a scanner. It doesn't recognize the fingerpritns, but one's distinctive individual power. Tweaking with it is futile, she knows, it wouldn't be here if a mere flicker of magic was enough to circumvent it. 

A wave of power suddenly trickles down Peggy's arm, stretching out into the very tips of her fingers. It feels foregin, yet familiar in a strange way. Like she knows the source, but it doesn't derive from her own magic. 

Capillaries on her hand fill with a faint blue light. 

Slowly, acting on pure instinct, Peggy lifts her hand and places it on the flat scanner on the port. The tablet underneath her fingers glows up, but for a long moment nothing happens. Then the door opens. 

Peggy quickly walks in, not wanting to risk them slamming back on her if she hesitates.

Two lines of small, circular lights cast a dim light down the empty hall, illuminating a row of identical black doors. Only numbers differentiate them, but no names, nor distinctive symbols are visible. 

She wonders, if she was to knock on the first door, would the rudely awaken sorcerer point her to Steve's room, or rather report her to Hill. 

A sudden tug in her chest causes Peggy to frown, her hand rubbing over the sternum to ease the throbbing sensation. 

Unknown impulse - one that told her what to do when facing Frost and Underwood, and which she thought to be pure survival mode - pushes her to move left. With cautious, quiet steps, she turns the corner and walks further down the long corridor. 

Heartbeat quickening, Peggy stops in front of the door at the very end of the hall. The pulsing in her chest increases before settling down peacefully, making her question if her psyche didn't make it all up. 

She lifts her fist to knock on the door, but it opens before she manages to do it. 

Steve's hair is disheveled. He messes it more when he runs his hand over his face and then through his hair. The T-shirt he's wearing is possibly the first one she's seen him in recently that isn't tigh on his chest and arms. This, along with the grey sweats low on his hips, makes him look soft and harmless.

She'd gladly snuggle close to him, if not for the mildly irritated look on his face.

"What do you want Peggy?" His throaty voice evokes a wicked jolt in her belly, tempting Peggy to push him against the wall. 

Instead, she focuses on the lack of surprise on his face that her presence should bring. Even if he expected her to confront him about the admission he made on the rooftop, he should be curious how she managed to get into a secured floor. 

"Why aren't you surprised I'm here?" Peggy frowns, jabbing a finger in his direction. " _How_  did you know I was at the door?"

Steve regards her with a guarded look, as if assessing how much of her confusion is genuine.

"Shit," he groans, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again any hostility is gone. "You really don't know."

"Clearly." Peggy huffs impatiently. 

With a swift move, Steve grabs her elbow and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them. 

Suddenly she's alone with him in his quarters, in semidarkness dispersed by the yellowish light coming from the little lamp on his bedside table. The room is smaller than she expected. Spacious enough for Steve's broad frame and apparently big enough to make a mess - a few clothing items tossed carelessly on the small couch, two empty cookie boxes left on the coffee table next to a stack of papers. 

When Peggy's gaze slides over to Steve's bed she quickly shifts. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turns around and peeks up at Steve. He's looking down at her intently, a frown creasing his forehead.

Neither speaks for a long moment. When Steve slightly leans in, a puffy whimper nearly escapes Peggy's lips. 

Steve shakes his head, taking a few steps back. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms in a stance mirroring to Peggy's. 

"You've got an implant of power," he says matter of factly, gliding his gaze down and up her body as if searching for said patch of magic. When he meets her gaze again there's something darkly pleased in his eyes, though his voice stays grim as he speaks. "My power." 

It tempts Peggy to deny it, play stupid for a while to see how he reacts. She opts for not reacting at all, waiting for further explanations.

"I don't know when it happened for you, though. From what I've found out, it doesn't necessarily happen at the same time. One of the bonded sorcerers can gain it without the other present, though it's said to be felt in a way." 

He pauses, holding Peggy's gaze, but she refuses to voice her suspicions of when it had happened for her. 

When Underwood's poison ate through her body she shouldn't have been able to do anything, like Bucky's power was unable to fight off the silvery parasite of magic. Then the unexpected rush of power with its familiar aftertaste filled her and expelled the offensive energy, killing Hydra's witch in the process. 

Steve's power did that. 

"Your magic branded itself in me years ago," Steve looks away, a somber expression on his face. "It was actually our very first fight with Hydra. Not the one in New York that media covered as our first battle. This one had been classified and buried, never to be known by public." 

A heavy weight settles in Peggy's chest when Steve says- "They attacked the Stark's manor." 

"Maybe two years after you left, maybe less. I was in the orchard when it happened. Too far from the house where Erskine and Howard were fighting off the warlocks. I ran as fast as I could, scared as hell. And I ran straight into Schmidt."

"Jesus," a breathy gasp leaves Peggy's mouth, her heart clenching in fear. 

Instinctively, she takes a step forward, everything in her overcome with need to comfort him.

Steve turns his head, looking at her with a ghost of a sad smile on his lips. 

"Yeah, I shouldn't have survived. For all of Erskine's faith, I was still a teenager with barely any control over my powers. Schmidt knocked me down, but in his confidence he made a mistake - he didn't kill me right away, just decided to toy with me for a bit. Then it pierced right through me, that absolutely overwhelming surge of power. I could've- should have ran when my blast toppled him, but I've always been a reckless moron, so I kept fighting."

He shakes his head with a huffed laugh. Peggy barely contains the smile tugging at the corners of her lips at his self-assesment.

"It didn't last long. Erskine came and Schmidt retreated."

He's aware that linking to Peggy's power had saved his life, but it wouldn't be enough to survive an encounter with Schmidt. Not then when he was still too weak. And too scared. 

"The next day I noticed a pulsing trace on my chest. With time it has spread, but somehow never scared me. When I recognized your purple emanation in it I knew what it meant." 

Silence that follows Steve's revelation is remarkably light, as if the cognition of the truth behind the living scar on her chest and knowing he went through the same erased the dark blotches of uncertainty which have always accompanied Peggy. 

It raises another question, though. One that forms on Peggy's lips with innocent fear of an abandoned child.

"Erskine knew?" she asks quietly. The thought the old man knew, but never attempted to explain or prepare her, rises bitterness in her throat. 

"No." Steve's answers sharply. The cut, however, isn't aimed at Peggy.  

She sees his shoulders tensing, fists clenching tighter. His nostrils flare, but his gaze skips to the side, chasing a memory. Steve's temper has always been quick to whip, much like Peggy's. Unlike her, however, he acts on it, suffering embarrassement and guilt later. Peggy clams up, stewing in resentment. 

"Erskine was a good man. He always believed in me." Steve pauses and swallows. "But he was also a fucking fool. He failed to believe in you. That was his big mistake." 

With a shake of his head, Steve straightens, arms falling to his sides, fists still clenched. He takes a step toward Peggy, his gaze not leaving her face as he moves.

"If I told him and he brought you back, it wouldn't be for your benefit. He'd do it to my advantage. To enhance my powers using you like a gullible tool. You deserve so much better, Peggy." 

Tears prickle at her eyes. A steel-vice pressure tightens her chest, threatening to crush her lungs if she gives in to the sobs. Biting hard on her lower lip, nearly drawing blood, Peggy turns her head to the side.

Adamant on hiding how Steve's words affect her, she holds onto the remnants of grudge. 

"You gotta have a quite scarred body. With mine, as well Bucky and Nat's implants of magic." Peggy says harshly. She really needs something to be angry with him for. Else she might crumble like a fragile bauble. 

Steve blinks rapidly, a little at lost. 

"What are you talking about?" He tilts his head to the side, trying to get in her line of vision, but Peggy stubbornly refuses to meet his gaze. 

"The shield," she shrugs. "I saw the footage. Your blue, Bucky's white and Natasha's red." A distinctive skill which has already been assigned to Steve as a sort of a trademark. 

"For fuck's sake, Peggy, it's a sealed combination of powers." Steve tosses his head back with an exasperated groan. "We worked on it together to enhance our defense after the attack on Stark's manor. All three of us can pick the shield, they just rarely have the need for it because they're usually working from the distance."

While he's the one to always jump head first, throwing himself in front of other people to protect them.

When Peggy tightens her lips, still focusing her gaze on the small lamp instead of looking at him, Steve rudely gets into her personal space. He crowds her, trapping her against the sofa. 

Steve leans down, his lips brushing her earlobe.

"I'm not linked to them. I share this bond only with you." He says softly.

He notices her shiver when her shoulder presses into his chest, hears the sharp intake of breath. Steve's own heart hammers in his chest. It has been for the past few weeks, since Peggy came to Triskelion. Now it quickens with irregular bursts of equal joy and fear, and longing. 

"Show me." Peggy's voice is a shaky whisper as she slowly turns. 

Her face is at his chest level, tip of her nose brushing along the fabric of his T-shirt. Steve's fists unclench, his fingers trembling when Peggy puts her hands on his waist, gripping the material there. 

"Show me your scar," she demands, pulling his T-shirt up. 

Steve complies without a word, helping her push the fabric over his head. His breath hitches the instant Peggy's fingertips rest gently atop his chest. 

His scar is different than hers. Much bigger, yet it holds the same unmistakable plexus of powers. A line of blue and purple begins an inch below his jugular notch and trails down his sternum in a nearly straight line that curves under his left pectoral where it forks into uneven branches.

Peggy traces it with her finger. Then follows with her lips. 

Steve grips her hips tightly.

"Peggy..." He rasps her name out in a warning tone. 

Careless of the strain in his tone, Peggy yanks her own shirt over her head and tosses it on the sofa. Steve's gaze drops to her chest where a matching evidence of their bond pulses steadily above the roundness of her breast. 

Peggy stands up on tiptoes, wrapping her arms around Steve's neck. His hands slide from her hips to her ass, pulling her even closer. 

He kisses her with much less hesitation than she expected. He's demanding, making up for the lost twelve years with a hunger that curls Peggy's toes. Steve nipps her bottom lip to tease her mouth open. Peggy's lips part in soft moan at the prickle of pain, and at the rush of heat pooling low in her belly.

Surge of energy in her chest blooms in licks of fire spreading over her whole body, making her dizzy. And wet. 

A moan rumbles in the back of Steve's throat when Peggy grinds against him. When he tries to slow down she pushes urgently.  

He's not surprised, Peggy was always impatient and restless. 

 

* * *

 

Storm of clashing thunders cuts through their slumber. A blaze of colours - acid greens and spearing blues and hues of yellow seeping in sharp flashes beneath their heavy eyelids. 

A piercing shrill jostles them awake a second before the alarms blast off in the whole building. 

Peggy's slower to fully awake, though her body instinctively follows Steve's abrupt movement. He's up and cursing, hastily pulling on his black combat suit. It takes Peggy a moment to draw her gaze away from his naked body and look outside the window. 

Early morning greys are darkened with strange black clouds. Blasts of colourful energies fly at the Triskelion in series of shots.

When a loud blow rumbles through the sirens realization finally hits her. In a second she's up and dressing, unknowingly keeping herself close to Steve. 

The moment they both run outside into the chaos stricken halls, she feels a surge of cold determination spreading through her body, steeling her nerves. Without a doubt, it comes from Steve - soakes through their bond.

"We're under a direct attack." Bucky runs toward them, zipping up the upper part of his suit. "Natasha's in the HQ with Hill, she's gonna report to you their numbers and positions. Then join you. So far they managed to trespass only the grounds. Triskelion's on full lockdown."

"Fury and Stark?" Steve asks in a chillingly composed voice. 

He swipes his gaze over the group of Avengers who stand now in the corridor, awaiting Captain's orders.

Peggy's seen some of them in the halls of Triskelion, others in various media coverage from battlefields. A few present are so very young, about the age Steve was when he faced Schmidt. They should be still learning. 

It downs on her now, with the sounds of explosions rocking the foundations of the building, they're not allowed to be innocent in their young years. None of them ever was. 

Another burst ripples through the walls.

Peggy's hands start shaking. Not out of fear, though adrenaline spikes her blood. Images of broken bodies she'll desperately try to heal threaten to crumble her composure. 

A wave of cold nausea washes over her, dread making her tremble. 

Suddenly, warm fingers touch hers gently. Not taking his eyes off of Bucky, Steve inconspicuously reaches for Peggy's hand, entwining their fingers. Tender connection sends a spark of reassurance. It doesn't calm Peggy's nerves, but allows to anchor herself.

"Fury's flying in along with Coulson's team. They should reach us in less than an hour." Bucky reports, voice clipped, lacking his usual careless drawl. "Stark's in the Bay. Tony's with him." 

"Good," Steve nods, processing the information. He casts another quick glance at the gathered group before spouting calculated orders. "Bucky, you and Sam take the advanced sorcerers out to help the first guard outside. Clint and Wanda, join Rhodey on the rooftop. Scott, take Peter and youngsters to take posts inside Triskelion in case they brake in. The rest follows me." 

Just as everyone starts dispersing to their assigned positions Steve turns to Peggy, his fingers still brushing hers. 

For the first time, however, he addresses her as a subordinate.

"Peggy, we're gonna need healers outside. Helen likes taking charge and keeping others in distance for safety, but we need all skilled healers out and moving." 

"I'll make sure of it," she nods solemnly. 

She should be moving now, running into the infirmary to join the others. Yet her feet are glued to the spot, her fingers trembling within Steve's hand.

There's a glint of fear in his eyes when she looks up at him, it turns the blue of his irises into cold, silvery ice. 

He squeezes Peggy's hand one more time then rushes off, a group of Avengers following him.

 

* * *

 

It feels like the grey clouds heavy with lead swarmed down to push her to the ground, crushing Peggy's chest in a vice grip. Her heart pauses in icy stupor.

Chaos of colors and shouts seems blurred while ringing fills hear head. Dizziness threatens to knock her over, right onto the glittery dust scattered where seconds ago she saw a young sorcerer topple over in pain. 

She ran towards him with the aim of helping when a shot of energy burst through him. Blue flames consumed his body before Peggy managed to reach him, leaving her choking on a scream. 

A chain of red-white magic, shaped like sparrows in flight, flies over her head and hits two of the Hydra warlocks in chests, killing them on the spot. 

It shakes Peggy from her momentary trance. 

She glances over her shoulder to find Sam climbed on a broken statue, directing his power in series of red and white flashes. Uncanny perception and reflex.

Bucky's prowling through the rubbles on her right, so menacing in his moves that merely a few warlocks dare to face him directly. 

Bright white of his magic glows around him in pulsing beats. Air seems to thicken where the white smudges fan out. An icy sparkling shimmers through it as the power crystalizes, suddenly bursting in a wide wave of freezing cold that pierces through four bodies at once, leaving distinctive frostbites on a quickly paling flesh.

It reminds Peggy of her own power - the sheet of electrical surge leaving crackling hoarfrost in its wake.

Bucky's opponents stay turned to icy statues for a long moment before the blue flame explodes from within, consuming them whole. 

A crackled sound in Peggy's ear makes her drop down instinctively, expecting a blow to pass right above her head. Nothing happens, though. When she stands up againg, her legs shaking, the buzzing turns into intermittent words. 

The small earpiece tucked into her left ear crackles with sounds of ongoing fight that disturbs someone's call for help. 

"Middle bridge," the voice in her ear croaks and Peggy's heart clenches painfully.

 _Steve_.

Peggy looks around. In the heat of the battle she completely lost track of her surroundings. It takes her a moment to recognize where she's now and to locate the bridge Steve's on. 

Out of the three bridges leading from solid land to Triskelion, two are sunken - Stark's doing from what she knows - and only one still provides a passage.

One that's right ahead.

With at least ten Hydra's warlocks standing in her way.

Hesitating only for a second, Peggy clenches her fists and bolts forward. Straight into the heaviest fire.  

Through the rush of blood buzzing in her head she barely registers Bucky yelling after her. Heart punds in her chest, quickening as the tugging on her scar grows stronger. Power pulsing through it heightens, seeping deeper into her bones. Peggy lets the sizzling surge fill her cells, as she has learned over the past years. Purple emanation glows through her veins, ready to lash out. 

It's an instinct to spread fingers of her right hand. A bundle of fizzling currents forms around it. When Peggy nears a broad, huffing warlock with a picture of crossed bones on his shirt - a cocky smirk forming on his lips at the sight of a weak healer daring his way - she flicks her wrist in a quick move. 

Blast of currents hits the man in the stomach, tongues of electrical current unfolding and spreading all over his body. He lets out a long, painful yell, his body trashing, trapped inside the electrical web. 

Peggy doesn't spare him another glance, just pushes past him, running toward the bridge. 

A ring of yellow flows right in front of her, cutting through the tree on her left. Peggy stops dead in her tracks, jumping to the side as the tree falls down.

She turns, ready to charge at whomever aimed at her, but a sudden wave of white clashes with the yellow energy.

Bucky finishes off the warlock with a terrifying efficiency. 

With a sharp nod in his direction, Peggy moves again. She runs along the fallen tree then climbs across it, through the thick branches, ignoring the scratches along her arms and face. 

Her heart leaps at the sight of Steve's silhouette in the distance. 

Bodies are scattered across the bridge, mostly on the opposite side of the two vehicles forming a barricade behind which Steve's standing. A wide, vivid spread of a blue, red and white shield separates him from the shots.

Someone's curled on the ground beside Steve's legs. Fiery red hair that's hard not to recognize. Peggy quickens her pace, realizing Natasha's deeply wounded.

As she reaches the bridge a wave of energy cuts into her back. 

She falls with a breathless whimper, her lungs crushed inside her ribcage. Her vision turns dark, awareness slipping away. Shouts resound in the distance, but she feels too weak to follow them.

Numbness takes over, eating through her bones.

Forcing her heavy eyelids to open, Peggy searches for Steve, though everything is just a splash of colors in a blurry background. 

Her vision slowly regains clarity. She sees Steve jumping on the hood of the car, the shield no longer keeping him safe. Brilliant blue of his power swallows each of the blasts sent in his direction, keeping off the attacking group of warlocks.

Until a spear of black magic hits him.

Steve falls onto his knees, hands clutching his stomach where the black tar penetrates his body. 

A sudden, searing pain cuts through Peggy's chest. Agony that shatters the cocoon of paralysis she's in.

Heat fills the pulsing scar, stretching further and further. Upsurge of power forces itself through her limbs in a burning sensation, its source coiling in her heart. Peggy tries pulling herself up onto her hands and knees, hoping to release the excess of magic, but she barely manages to keep herself steady. 

The power yet increases. A blade that scorches across her chest and down her right arm, making Peggy scream.

Steve's raging cry resounds along with hers. 

Panting, Peggy drops her gaze to her bare arm. A vine of entwined powers gouges her skin, forming patterns of blue and purple down to her palm. As it permeates her skin, up to the tips of her fingers, the boiling overflow of energy inside her settles down. She can feel it vibriting within her, ready to snap at her command. 

Still shaking slightly, Peggy slowly stands up.

Her gaze falls on Steve's hunched body, his head bent down.

A swarm of warlocks runs down the bridge towards them and she can't make herself move fast enough to reach him before they do.

Peggy's a few steps away from the cars when an orange volley flies Steve's way.

And dies mid-air. 

More blasts follow - a splatter of colors that disperse into nothingness before reaching Steve. Assailants slow their run, now shocked and wary. A few gasps can be heard when Steve lifts his head and very slowly stands up. 

A glint of blue flashes a few feet from him, a spark of purple following, spreading in the air.

Combination of Steve and Peggy's emenations intensifies, until a wide, tall wall of energy becomes visible. It stretches all around them, forming a dome over the whole Triskelion. 

Peggy drops down beside Natasha. Pale and disoriented, the redhead startles when Peggy touches her shoulder. 

Natasha's breath hitches as a stream of scorching power seeps into her wound. She grits her teeth and forces her gaze away from looking down at Peggy's fingers digging into her flesh. Pain pierces through her, but as suddenly as it appeared it vanishes, leaving only the tingling, warm sensation of slow healing. 

Peggy helps Nat into a more comfortable sitting position against the car, then moves away. She climbs the hood of the car, taking a stand next to Steve. 

Hydra's troop is relentlessly spewing bolts of energy their way. Each shatters into the newly formed shield, failing to make any damage. At least so far. 

"Is it-" Peggy swallows hesitantly, running her gaze over the layer of combined purple and blue. 

" _Us_. Yes." Steve nods, his voice betraying surprise. 

His fingers wrap around Peggy's wrist, lifting her hand up. He studies the pulsing capillaries on her arm. When he traces one of the purple lines on her palm with his finger Peggy notices a similar branching on his hand. Vibrant blue entwined with purple. 

A rumble of blasts reminds them the battle is still going on. Somewhere behind them the sorcerers are dying, trying to keep the warlocks from entering the Triskelion.

Newly formed shield around the compound could shatter any moment, too, for all they know. 

"I think it's mostly you," corners of Peggy's mouth tug up in a smile. "The shield, I mean. You were always all about protecting people from bullies."

"Yeah?" Steve arches a brow. "And what are  _you_  all about? Because it's definitely not healing, though you're fucking good at it." 

A laugh escapes her lips and she leans her head against Steve's arm for a brief moment.

He's warm and safe, even in the middle of a war zone.

Peggy tries not to let the thought of how close to dying both of them were mere minutes ago take over her mind now, or she'll risk crumbling into a sobbing mess. With a shake of her head, she pulls herself together and straightens.

Energy crackles in the tips of her fingers, a steady pulsing filling the marks on her body. 

"Well," Peggy huffs, turning to face the group of warlocks on the other side of the shield. "I always wanted to punch said bullies." 

Spreading her fingers wide, she lets the currents skip between her knuckles, focusing on the growing energy that reflects in the purple streams in the magic wall. Peggy waits for her power to reach its peak. 

In a snap she releases it - a purple grid spearing the air with a cracking sound, illuminating their surroundings with a flash bright as a lightning. It cuts through the whole group of warlocks. A chain of deadly cobalt flames rushes down the bridge, their screams dying into sudden silence. 

Peggy's heart beats as steadily as ever, but she feels faint.

Power buzzes restlessly in her vains. Power, that so easily wiped out a group of people, but didn't act fast enough when she saw that boy dying earlier today. 

"Easy," Steve's arm sneaks around her waist, holding her upright and against him when her knees buckle. 

"Come one, Peggy," he breathes against her ear- "don't faint on me now. I have to carry Nat, can't carry you both." 

Peggy focuses on the familiarity and warmth of his voice, anchoring herself to the present. Digging her fingers into Steve's shoulders, she steadies herself on her feet.

She allows herself a few more seconds being pressed close to Steve before stepping back. 

She rolls her eyes when he offers her a helping hand to scramble off the car, but takes it.

As Steve leans down to pick a grumbling Natasha, Peggy looks around the grounds surrounding the Triskelion. The chaos seems mostly dying down. Yells for medical help keep coming from various directions. 

On instinct, she runs ahead, her energy and spirit incessant. 

 

* * *

 

There are still a few speckles of blood on her palms from when she healed some of the injured. Small splatter lost between the blue and purple flowing through the smooth lacerations on her hand. In the bright daylight filling the vast space of Fury's office they are so vivid. The dirt covering her head to toe can't pass unnoticed either. 

In a peculiar way, that disheveled state makes Peggy uncomfortable. 

In the years she spent with Ana and Edwin she has picked a few habits and rules, like that of looking presentable during a meeting. Especially a meeting with your superior. 

Next to her, Steve doesn't seem the least bothered with their appearance. Nor with the strength of Fury's one-eyed glare directed at them. 

"Care to explain what the hell happened?" Fury presses his palms against the desk, leaning on it heavily as he towers over them. 

"Hydra attacked the compund." Steve retorts, his fingers tapping on the armrest of his chair. 

"Spare me your smartass remarks, Rogers." Fury looks unimpressed. Like it's not the first time Steve's been a cheeky shit. Which, really, doesn't surprise Peggy much.

Fury doesn't shift his position as he relocates his focus onto Peggy.

There's a thin manila folder under one of his palms, his finger tapping on it steadily. It has to be a file on her, Peggy realizes, suddenly curious about its contents. She doubts he'll let her read it.

"I'd ask since when a healer can pull a stunt like that-" he stares her down- "if I ever believed you're one, Carter. Clearly, you do good in that field. You've impressed even Cho. Not a surprise given your teachers. But there's more to you."

"You knew I was Erskine's apprentince first." Peggy meets his gaze defiantly. "I hid nothing from you."

Bullshit. She knows it and Fury does too. 

Their acquaintance started with Falsworth burying the truth about who killed Frost and Underwood. 

"Oh really?" Fury snorts, glancing pointedly at the nexus of power-filled scars down her arm. 

Unlike Steve, whose combat suit has long sleeves, Peggy has nothing to wrap around herself. Everyone's been working hard on helping the wounded and patching all damages, no time to sleep, much less to take a shower or change. When the opportunity to catch a breath came director Fury had summoned them. 

"It's a new development." Steve's voice is sharply edged, as if in warning for Fury not to cross a line.

Peggy's unsure of the actual dynamic between the two, but it seems Steve's not considered to be the usual subordinate. Not that he possesses the ability to be one. 

Knowing Fury's one of the most powerful sorcerers, she doubts Steve gets away with a lot just because of his skills. Most likely, they figured it's easier to let some things slide than argue with him, given how stubborn he is. 

"Obviously." Fury mutters, shifting his gaze to Steve's right hand which is covered in a similar vine of pulsing magic. 

With a sigh, he straightens and clasps his hands behind his back. He had little time to consider his options, but knows pulling it off isn't a solution either. Not now when the war has fully erupted. 

"You're staying on the healer post-" He nods at Peggy.

"Sir, I don't think that's a wise move," Steve cuts in. He leans forward, placing elbows on his knees. "Peggy's potential has been disregarded before. We shouldn't-"

" _You_  shouldn't interrupt, Captain." Fury snaps at him. "Either respect the chain of command, or I'll order you out." 

If Peggy wasn't equally irritated, she'd laugh at Steve's sulky expression. Her lips are tightly pressed, a frown on her forehead mirroring Steve's. They watch Fury warily. A steady flow of power within them simmers with suppressed frustration. 

Turning back to Peggy, Fury resumes- "You'll stay on the healer post. Until you get sorcerer's credentials." 

Peggy's hands clench on the armrests of her chair. Hope rises quickly, making her chest ache with yearning she thought to have gotten rid of years ago. But it's still inside her. 

"You'll enter advanced training, starting tomorrow. Hill is going to supervise you. However, given the current situation, you'll be allowed out in the field if needed. Under Captain Rogers' orders." 

Unaware of her own movement, Peggy grasps Steve's hand. 

 

* * *

 

Tangle of intricate lines weaves tightly over the right side of Steve's chest and halfway down his ribcage. A narrow, single tail is still curved under his left pectoral. Vines of purple and blue trailing up over his colarbone thin, spreading down his muscular arm in a pattern of irregular lightnings. They encircle his wrist like a thick band and expand over his palm in a fan of thin capillaries. 

His heart beats steadily. Peggy can feel it thumping beneath her hand where she holds it over his sternum. 

Steve's finger traces a purple vein curved atop Peggy's breast, following it up toward her shoulder. He pushes the strap of her bra off, pressing his lips to her bare skin. 

"Do you think it'll spread further?" Peggy asks, nuzzling his neck. 

"Mhmm." Steve hums then dips his tongue in the hollow above Peggy's collarbone. A thin blue streak pulses there, heating up when he licks it. 

Peggy moans. Energy ripples beneath her skin, its glimmer intensifying.

She slides her hands down Steve's chest, muscles in his abdomen tense as she lightly scratches him. 

She stops, suddenly. Arching back, she searches Steve's face.

"I'm serious, Steve." She bites her lower lip with worry. "Are we going to be covered in it head to toe?" 

"Would it bother you?" He quirks a brow, rubbing the underside of her breast with his thumb. If anything, he feels only desire to explore the complex, living pattern on her body. 

"No. Yes? I don't fucking know!" Peggy sighs in annoyance, pressing her face into his chest. 

Steve wraps his arms around her.

It's like sitting on a bomb. Explosion, however, seems to be beyond their control. All he knows from his previous research is that the few bonded sorcerers in the past centuries have lived long. Mostly. He guesses it's safe to assume that the spreading implant won't kill them. 

"Seems that it happens when one of us is close to death," Steve muses, rubbing his chin atop her head. "If we evade it in the future, we should be fine." 

"Oh, 'cause that's so easy to do." Peggy snorts. 

She tilts her head to look at Steve again. He's smiling back at her, eyes glinting with childish joy. That innocence rarely appears on his face. Peggy suspects it's been gone for many years, resurfacing only in the few intimate moments he got to share with those closest to him. 

"No better time to avoid death than at war." Steve shrugs, corner of his mouth tilting higher. "Darkest under the lamp post, and all that." 

He slides one of his hands lower, splaying it over Peggy's ass. When she quirks her brow at him he squeezes her flesh and flashes her a cheeky smile. He yanks her closer. She can feel him hardening against her belly. 

"Besides-" Steve bents his head to nip her bottom lip. Then flicks his tongue over the sting. "I'm gonna protect you." 

Not waiting for any response, he dips her slightly and kisses her. Peggy's fingers clench in his hair.  

"M-maybe I'll be the one protecting  _you_?" Peggy breathes out when Steve moves his mouth down her neck, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses. 

In a swift, surprisingly skilled move, Steve unclasps her bra, pushes it off and drops it on the floor. He closes one of his hands over Peggy's left breast, thumb rubbing on her nipple until it's taut and aching. 

"I don't mind," Steve mumbles against Peggy's shoulder. 

He slides his hand from her breast to her waist. Then bents her backwards over his other arm and closes his mouth around the stiffened peak. With her free hand Peggy grips Steve's forearm, anchoring herself. Her fingernails needle his skin when Steve grazes her nipple with his teeth. 

Sprigs of Peggy's scar light up. 

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me on this crazy journey. This is what happens when I have weird dreams (fortunately, not too often).


End file.
